A Little Night Music
by APat96
Summary: In this story, Jack lives, as does Rose. However, neither know the other is alive, and circumstances keep them apart. Look for a twist in the later chapters.
1. Chapter 1

Rose lay at the surface, blowing the whistle as loudly as she could, desperate, cold, dying. Oh, it was hopeless, they would never hear her. She would just die here, like Jack.

"Come back." She croaked weakly. "Come back."

Defeated, she slumped, still blowing the whistle. Maybe dying alongside Jack wouldn't be so bad. What did she have to live for now, anyway? It would be a peaceful escape. And, in a few minutes, she would be laying next to him, finally together for eternity.

Suddenly, a light hit her face, shattering her thoughts. It was the boat, having finally noticed her. She blew the whistle louder. The boat rowed further towards her, scooping her up and covering her quickly with a blanket. The women in the boat fussed over her, tending to her, but all she could do, as they rowed away from the site, was tilt her head as best she could to the sea. She stared weakly at the floating piece of wood, where _he_ had saved her. Frozen tears stung at the corners of her eyes.

"I love you, Jack." She croaked, sobbing inward before passing out against the floor of the small boat.

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Jack's body fell slowly through the icy water. His consciousness lay somewhere, very far off, heaven, maybe? _Rose_, his thoughts whispered to him. Again, and again. His consciousness was everything, all at once. Happy that she had been saved, sad, that she would live alone, angry at the unfairness of it all, and, lastly, scared, because he was dying.

_Rose_, his thoughts whispered once more, with increasing fervent, _Rose, Rose, Rose. _They grew louder. _ROSE_. His eyes snapped open, his mouth gasping for breath under water. His ears popping from the change in pressure. Just at the surface, he could see the hundreds of floating bodies.

Acting fast, or as quickly as he could manage, he pulled himself to the surface with a few glides of his arms. He was pumped full of adrenaline, coming from the power that he had just died and lived, all in the same moment.

At the surface, he clung to the first thing he could find. Looking down, he noticed it was the piece of wood Rose had been lying on. But she wasn't there.

'Okay,' He thought, 'She got _saved_. She didn't _die_, she…she had to've been saved.' He reassured himself, unwilling to believe that she was no longer.

Looking around frantically, he saw, in the distance, two boats. One was further away, going away from him. The other was just on the outskirts of the field of bodies. It was turned sideways, his best shot.

"Hey!" He tried to yell, but, instead, only a slight whisper came out, the product of the cold.

"Over here!" He tried again, with no luck. Jack attempted to scream a few more times, but nothing was working. He had to try to reach them.

He swam, with his dwindling power, to the nearest corpse, latching on to their lifejacket, trying his best not to look them in the face. And then the next, and the next. He continued to do this morbid trick until reaching only mere yards away from the boat.

Jack felt his strength leaving. He couldn't reach the boat. It was all over. His eyes were closing from exhaustion and cold, and his body was tensing up and shaking violently.

"Hey!" He tried calling, one last time, his voice coming out a bit more clearer this time. It was no use. They couldn't hear him. His grasp began to loosen.

Just then, a light flashed over his face, blinding him, causing him to tighten his grasp on the dead person's lifejacket.

"Anybody out there?" A strong, clear voice called, skimming the light over the field of dead.

"Hey!" Jack called again, lifting a weak arm above the water. He couldn't get more than his forearm out of the water. The light continued to skim the field, not seeing him. And then it did. The light fixed on him, making him wince his eyes shut.

"I'm alive!" He called, though the phrase sounded awkward in his mouth.

The boat rowed towards him, slowly, with the man heading it speaking in strong, clear clips. Jack couldn't understand what he was saying, though. It had to've been English, but he might as well've been speaking Latin, for all that was running through Jack's head.

The women in the boat struggled to pull him up, but succeeded, placing him on the floor of the boat, covering him with a thick, woolen blanket. He shook, from the sudden change in temperature. His teeth rattled in his head, chattering.

"Are you alright, sir?" A young woman asked him. She had a child tucked into her coat, and Jack could just see the top of the kid's head peeking from it.

"Y-yes ma-am." He whispered, attempting a smile. Satisfied, the woman turned away, brushing her hand lightly over the top of her child's head. He wasn't completely sure of it himself, though.

As the boat began to row away, toward the awakening light on the horizon, where the other boats were, he slumped against the side, pulling the wool around him tighter. He felt fatigue wash over him, and his eyes, burning for sleep, beginning to close.

Before surrendering to rest, however, he turned his head as best he could to look out over the water, his eyes searching for the piece of wood where he had seen her last. Jack found it, his eyes resting on it, even as they closed for sleep.

"Rose." Came his whisper, with a small, calm smile, because, even if she _had_ died, even if they would never see each other again, which, admittedly, would wreck him, there would always be the Titanic; there would always be their love. And that, that alone, was all he really needed to live.


	2. Chapter 2

"Rose. Rose DeWitt Bukater. Is she on there?" Jack demanded of the man holding the clipboard. A steady drizzle fell upon the deck of the Carpathia, and the man, standing under a black umbrella, flipped lazily through the list of survivors. "Can't you look any faster?" Jack pleaded.

"Sir, please, quiet yourself." The man answered, sighing. He had been answering these questions all day. At first, he had been glad to help, compassionate, sympathetic for those who searched for their loved ones. Now, he had to brace himself, he couldn't be compassionate to everyone, he had a _job_ to do. "I'm sorry sir, there is no one listed under that name. I've got a _Ruth_ DeWitt Bukater?"

Jack just stared at him, his eyes setting in determination. "It's _Rose, _and can you check again?" He asked.

"Sir, I've got the whole lower deck to register, I don't have time for this. I'm very sorry for your loss." He answered brusquely. Upon seeing Jack's face fall, he murmured lightly "Look, if she's not with her family with the first class passengers, she might have been mixed up with the second or third class passengers. Feel free to have a look around." And, with that, he was gone.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Jack ran down the steps to the lower deck, the wool blanket trailing behind him. He quickly paced around, watching mothers grasp their children tightly, watching kids that had been orphaned wail, watching women weep with fear, with loss. Every weeping face, he studied with intense fervor, checking for long, scarlet curls, checking for Rose. He passed a woman, curled up with fear. She was sobbing intensely, a blanket pulled up around her head so as not to be seen.

A wave of sympathy rushed through Jack, and he passed by her, sure that it wasn't Rose, anyway. What was the use? He was just getting his hopes up. He didn't even _want_ to know the truth. What was that saying? Oh, yeah, _ignorance is bliss._

Behind him, though, as he walked by the woman, a sudden wind blew a curl from behind her ear, and the curl wafted in the wind, a perfect wave of scarlet, before she reached forward with shaking hands, tucking it back behind her ear. And he never saw.


	3. Chapter 3

Two years after the sinking of the Titanic, Jack lived in Santa Monica, drawing portraits on the boardwalk for ten cents each. The money was fair, the views beautiful, and the work easy. However, he was stuck watching loving couples share glances. He was forced to watch what he could never have. He made himself tough, though, to block it all out. It was the only thing he could do.

This day was a usual one. He brought his easel and charcoal to the boardwalk, set up shop, and sketched those who stopped, collecting their dimes and handing over portraits. Everyone commented on his talents, praising him and them moving on.

He never forgot about Rose, though. She always had a way of sneaking back into his head. Jack didn't have any pictures of her, though. He had to work from memory, squinting his eyes shut to remember how her shoulder had curved _that_ way, how her eyes were neither round nor almond shaped, how she had that mole exactly right _there_. He drew many sketches of her.

Today, he drew until the late afternoon, when the crowds began to dwindle, and the other vendors began to pack up shop. Jack followed suit, placing his sticks of charcoal into their individual slots, closing the case, folding the easel, and walking wordlessly to the end of the boardwalk, where he walked down to the beach and sat himself down in the sand.

There was nothing better than watching the sun set on the edge of the ocean, even given his troubled past with large bodies of water. He had never dared to even so much as set foot in the warm water of Santa Monica, even if the Atlantic lay on the other side of the country.

In the distance, he saw a small storefront, right on the beach, where one could rent a horse to ride along the coast. It was near deserted now, save for the owner and a woman, who was handing him some cash as he brought out a great black mare, handing the woman the reins and taking the money in return.

Jack pulled out his sketchbook and a stick of charcoal, beginning to draw the woman as she attempted to mount the horse. It was clear that she had never ridden a horse before, at least saddle-style, and she was having difficulty. Jack suppressed a small smile.

Finally, she got up into the saddle, with the help of the owner, and she sat up there for a few moments, glancing at her legs on either side of her, as if amused by them. The owner disappeared into the back for a moment, returning with a box camera.

After taking her picture, the owner instructed the woman on how to ride the horse, and how to hold the reins. She ended their brief talk by setting off down the beach.

Though she had begun far down the beach, the horse picked up speed, and they sailed down the beach, the woman's hair flying out from her bun. As they came into view, Jack prepared himself for seeing the woman's face, so as to draw it, and looked up from his sketchbook, just as she passed.

The woman wore linen pants, with a white blouse, and a short, red scarf around her neck. Her eyes were light with joy, and her mouth was open in a grin, laughter escaping her red lips. Behind her, long, scarlet red curls trailed, dancing in the wind. Laughter floated in the wind as she rode by, as if she were amused to be riding a horse. Like a man.

It was then that Jack knew. He jumped up from the sand, his eyes opening widely, his sketch long forgotten. He sprinted after her, using all his strength, thoughts running wildly through his mind.

_**ROSE**_


	4. Chapter 4

"Rose!" He screamed, running and stumbling in the sand. "Rose!" He ran faster. "Rose!" His bare feet slipped in the sand. His lungs strained to take in oxygen, his arms flying madly at his side. The gap between them was growing.

She couldn't hear him, the crash of the waved were too loud, the wind whipping past her ears was to high, who knows? Jack sank down to the sand, defeated, his eyes wide with thought. The woman on the horse grew smaller and smaller as they traveled further down the beach. Then, they were gone, disappearing over a sand dune.

Slowly, Jack stood up, wiping sand from his knees, and glancing back towards the stand where the horse had come from. He walked back, rubbing his head, and kicking up clods of sand as he went.

Jack passed by his things, continuing on for the mile or so down the beach to the stable, just up at the top of the boardwalk. He climbed up the sand, his heart pounding so hard he could _hear_ it, and walked across the concrete, barefoot.

"Sir, excuse me, sir!" He called, reaching the small, green counter.

"Whaddaya want?" Came the muffled reply, as the man was bent over a box of ropes and other various items. He lifted his head, giving Jack the once-over.

"I—uh, how do I phrase this?" Jack began, searching for words. "Could you tell me the name of that woman you just rented a horse to?"

"Buddy, I don't give the names of customers. Liability reasons." The man answered with a shrug, turning away.

"No, wait! She… I think she's someone I might know, but, uh, I'm not entirely sure."

"Look, buddy, I can't help you. Now, I suggest you take yourself away from my shop, unless you want to get the officials involved."

Jack just clenched his jaw, turning away from the shop and making his way back to his things. After a brief jog in the sand, in which he kicked up clods of it out of frustration, he reached his little camp, preparing to pack up and head back to his little flat for the night. Then, he thought better of it.

He picked up his things, strapping the easel to his back, and headed to a spot closer to the shop. Though he remained a distance from the storefront, lest the owner go through with his threat, Jack plopped down in the sand with a heavy sigh, prepared to wait out the time until that woman returned.

Grinding his teeth, Jack reached for his sketchbook and a stick of charcoal, flipping past the drawing of the woman on the horse, to begin a new sketch. This time, he began to draw a child he had seen that day on the boardwalk. The little girl had been so exuberant to just be there, amongst it all. He added in her curls and dimples, completing it with a background of the roller coaster.

After finishing that sketch, Jack drew several more, of various people he had seen. The people were all framed by the crowds, though, and, in each one, a woman, with long, red curls, faded in with said crowd. It was like an impulse, he just always did it, without even being fully aware of it. She always wormed her way into his mind, his drawings. Hell, his mind _was _his drawings.

The sun had long set, and the waves lapped lightly at the sand, the wind roaring in his ears, growing colder by the minute. The cold, salty air clutched at his heart, making him swallow that lump of cotton forming in his throat. _No leaving_, He thought. Jack _had_ to stay there, at least until _she_ got back, so that he could see for himself. It was the only thing he could do.

Hell, though. He had seen Rose's face on _millions_ of women since being back. The way that they smiled, the curve of their face, _anything_ that reminded him of her sent him spiraling back, picturing her, only her. He was a basket case.  
>He drew fervently, trying to block out everything. The tips of his fingers stained black with dust, his face a mess of smudges as he reached up and rubbed at his face. He lost himself in the make-believe world of happy, lively people, the black and white, happy place where everything worked out, where lovers lived their lives, together, until they died, at the same time, in each other's arms. He lost himself in that fantasy. It was just too easy.<p>

"Jack?" He heard, finally, breaking him slightly from his thoughts, though he did not look up from his drawings. "Jack?" Came the whisper again, this time a bit louder. "Jack!"

This time, he looked up, his eyes meeting those of a woman, standing before him. Her linen pants were wrinkled, her scarf wrapped loosely around her neck, and, lastly, her long, red curls gathered lazily in a bun, several strands falling down her back.

"Rose." He said, dropping his things and standing up, meeting her eye to eye. They stood, paralyzed in fear, in mixed emotions.

Then, Rose broke the moment, reaching forward and wrapping her arms around his torso tightly. He returned the favor, placing his arms around her back, burying his face in her curls, breathing in the lightly perfumed smell. He felt warm, wet tears soaking into his shirt.

"Rose." He said, pulling away slightly. "I…I didn't know that you survived. You were gone, and…and I thought the worst had happened." He whispered, his voice cracking.

"And you!" She answered, smiling through her tears. "You were _dead!_ I…I tried to wake you up, to tell you that there was a boat! You were dead!" She whispered, tears falling further down her face, masking her eyes with them.

"I…I don't know what happened. The pressure, maybe? All I know is that my brain got really fuzzy, and then, I—I'm underwater. And when I got to the top, you…you were gone." Jack replied, tears filling his eyes.

"Oh, Jack." Rose whispered, hugging him again, tightly. "You must never, ever leave again. "

"I won't."

They held each other for a few more moments, taking each other in, squinting past the tears, trading quips on their survival. It was all just so fast, so emotional. So…unbelievable. Against all odds.

"Would you…would you like to visit my flat for some coffee?" Rose asked finally, blushing slightly at being so forward in her actions.

"I would love that." Jack answered, turning and wrapping an arm around her as he grabbed his things, and they headed off, down the beach, together.


	5. Chapter 5

"So, I know this isn't much, but, I, well, I haven't been in contact with Cal, or my mother, so I've been working as a teacher for money." Rose said, blushing, as she ushered Jack into the flat. There were numerous windows, overlooking a luscious garden, and the rooms were light on furniture and decoration, the better for lounging and thinking.

"No, it's perfect." Jack answered, grinning. "So, where do you teach?"

"Saint Agatha's Preparatory School for Young Women. They usually don't take on anyone other than Nuns, but they made an exception in my case. I think they pitied me." She laughed, glancing down.

"No shame in that, I bet you're an amazing teacher." Jack answered, grinning.

"Please, have a seat, I'll fetch us some coffee."

And so Jack sat down on the green sofa, glancing around the well-lit yellow room. Next to the massive windows, bookcases lined the room, holding vases of flowers, and light, happy paintings above them.

Soon, Rose returned, balancing a tray with two cups, a little pitcher for cream, and a small bowl of sugar cubes. She set it down on the coffee table, taking the seat opposite Jack.

"So, Jack, what have you done, since…since the um…"

"Well," Jack said, filling the void, "I bounced around for a little bit, didn't want to stay in New York, after the boat docked. Went to Boston for a bit, to see if those 'Boston Dawsons' truly existed. They do, by the way." He grinned. "I had a show there, for a while, after a man saw me drawing in the Commons. Got some money from that. Next, I think I went off to Maine, stayed near a lighthouse." He paused, taking a slug of coffee. "When I had tired out the New England area, I headed west, back to Chippewa falls. You know, visited my parents' graves and all, paid my respects. Went further west after that, stayed in Portland for a bit, drew Mount Saint Helens. They had a nice city there, in Oregon, but it rained too much. That's the problem with places like Seattle and Portland. Too much rain. 'Course, though, when the rain stops, it's really beautiful out, and the temperature's _just_ right, and all. Well, there just can't be any other place like it." He smiled, taking another sip of coffee as Rose curled up in the chair, placing her legs under her.

"And then?" Rose asked, curious, "Where did you go after that?"

"Uh, let's see, I think I went to Northern California. They've got some great wine up there, let me tell you that. Not as good as Paris, but, still, they've got rolling hills of vineyard, which is the next best thing to France, and, when the sun is setting _just_ right, and you've got a glass of the stuff in your hands. You would think that there'd be nothing better."

"Oh?" Rose asked, her eyes lighting up.

"Yeah." Jack answered, shaking his head with wonder. "Well, after that, I came down to good ol' Santa Monica, and I've been here ever since."

"So what do you do here? Do you still draw portraits?" Rose asked, grinning. "Ten cents apiece?"

"Of course." Jack answered, laughing. "Never any better work than drawing the happy ones."

"Unless it's _being_ the happy ones." Rose answered, and they joined in laughter.

"So, Rose, I just realized that I'm sitting here chatting your ear off. You must be bored to death."

"Oh, Jack, I could never be bored listening to you. You're far too interesting."

"Isn't that grand." Jack said in a put-on high society voice, sending Rose into wild laughter. "No, really, though, I'd love to hear your story of what you've been up to. I'm all ears."

"Well, that sounds like a grand idea, but first, let me top off your coffee. Oh, and feel free to look around, I've got some paintings that I think you may like." She said, lifting the tray and bringing it to the kitchen.

Jack lifted himself slowly, still grinning, and walked over to a painting on the wall. It featured a dancing couple, a mere silhouette, simple and elegant. Then, upon closer inspection, one could see the thick brushstrokes and heavy paint, truly a wonder. Jack saw other paintings of various things, flowers and people alike. Rose had seemed to collect the art, hanging them wherever possible. And boy, did she have good taste. He was marveling at one of the French Riviera when Rose reentered, holding a fully restocked tray.

"Here we are." She said, placing the tray on the table once more, sinking back into her chair and tucking her long, lithe legs under her. "Where were we?"

"You were just about to tell me about your adventures." Jack smiled, sitting back down on the sofa.

"Ah, yes, well, there's really not much to tell." She answered, smiling.

"Oh, come on, nothing? I bet you traveled across the country, breaking men's hearts, and had adventures, and—"

"Oh, nothing of the sort!" Rose cut him off, laughing loudly. "I simply came here because we promised we would. I was determined to do all the things that you told me to do. I've even accomplished a few, as you saw with the horse. Otherwise, my life is mild. It pales in comparison to yours! I have, however, ridden on the roller coaster at the boardwalk. Scared the hell out of me!" She laughed, taking a sip of coffee.

"Other than that, I decided to settle down as best I could, establish some normalcy. I haven't seen anyone from my past life. I've decided to focus more on creating a home life for my small family. I've tried pushing the boundaries of a single woman as best I can, though." She said, smiling.

_Wait, family? _ Jack thought, his brow furrowing. _She's said she's single, though, but, hell, with looks like hers, there must've been a guy somewhere in there._

He was just about to ask her about it, when the silence was pierced by the wail of a child. The sound rang out through the flat, widening Jack's eyes and bringing Rose to a stand. From one of the rooms behind Rose, an old woman peeked her head out, and the wail grew in pitch, no longer muffled by the walls.

"Terribly sorry, ma'am." She said, her voice covered with a heavy accent. "The babe was woken by a noise outside. I'll change his nappy and have 'im back to sleep in a few." She nodded as she closed the door to the room.

Rose nodded in return, sinking back into the chair.

"So, where were we?" She asked, taking another sip of coffee.

"You…you have a kid." Jack exclaimed, standing.

"Yes," Rose sighed, "I do."

"Wow. I…I bet you're the best Mother in the country." He smiled weakly. _So she had been with another man. But he was gone now? Dead, maybe? Ran out like an asshole? Damn that guy, for putting Rose through hell. Jesus, if he ever got his hands on that man, well, it wouldn't be pretty._

"Better than _my _mother, at the very least!" She smiled lightly.

"How old is he?"

"Little over a year." She answered. "Would you like to see him?"

"I...uh, I…I'd love to."

Rose grasped him by the hand, leading him down the hallway, to the third bedroom on the right. She knocked on the door lightly, so as not to disrupt the child.

The old woman appeared at the door, opening it quietly.

"May I help you, ma'am?" She asked, in a whisper.

"Yes, Luella, I'd like to bid goodnight to my son."

"'Course, ma'am, I'll give th' two a' you some privacy." She answered, walking away from the door and disappearing into an adjacent nanny suite.

"Come." Rose said quietly, taking Jack by the hand and leading him to the edge of the crib.

The boy inside had a round, dimpled face that could only be found on a child, with small, straight tufts of blond hair. He slumbered peacefully on his back, his little chest rising evenly with deep breaths.

"Rose, I don't know how you did it, but you've created perfection." Jack whispered, smiling at the child.

Rose could only smile in return, reaching a long, thin arm down and softly stroking the child's cheek.

"What's his name?" Jack asked, after another moment, completely mesmerized by the perfect little human being before him.

"Jack, just like his daddy." Came her soft reply.

"Oh, his father's named Jack, too?" Jack asked.

"Jack," She began, placing a hand on his arm. "He's named after _you_. You're his father."

Jack backed away from her arm so that it fell lamely at her side. His eyes had widened, his breath becoming rapid and erratic. He backed out of the room, walking quickly down the hallway, pacing the living room.

"Jack. Jack!" Rose called, following him. "Are you alright?"

"I…I have no idea!" He replied, stopping and staring directly at her. "When…how?"

"Jack, you remember the night we had together, correct?" Rose asked lightly. Realization flooded him, and his shoulders sagged, his eyes growing heavy.

"Hell, Rose, I'm so sorry. I never meant to burden you like that."

"No, Jack, it's fine, it's alright. I love that child in there, and never, not once, have I regretted anything. You have nothing to be upset about. I'll thank you, even, not only for freeing me, that night, but also for what you gave me. I only wish that I could have known where you were, so as to tell you."

"Jesus, it was one night." He said, unable to believe it. "Best night of my life, though. How…how did you find out?"

"Well, it was…a few months after…the ordeal…and I was missing my, well, my…cycles. It wasn't long before my stomach grew round."

"And you're sure, that he's…mine?"

"Mr. Dawson, are you accusing me of getting around?" Rose asked angrily.

"No, no, of course not, but, has there…has there been anyone else in the picture?"

"No." She answered firmly. "No there has not."

Jack nodded mulling everything over in his head. He was a _father_. The father of _Rose's_ kid. More importantly, Rose was _alive!_ It was a lot to process.

"So Jack, Jack _jr._ is…mine?"

"Well, I've been calling him by a nickname, but, for all intensive purposes, yes. He is yours."

Jack's face was enveloped by a huge grin, and he rushed forward, lifting Rose off of her feet.

"Jack! Put me down!" She cackled, wrapping her arms around his shoulders.

"Not unless you agree to marry me!" He answered, laughing.

"Jack, we _just_ reconnected, don't you think it's a bit soon? You _must_ need some time to process all of this, as do I!" Jack leaned in, enveloping her in a passionate kiss that lasted for several seconds. He pulled back, finally, his hands on her back.

"Rose," He began, setting her down. "Take all the time you need to think about it, but I have a feeling you're gonna say 'yes'."

"Oh? And how do you know what I will or won't say?" She asked, narrowing her eyes as he reached for his coat and things.

"Because," He began, scribbling his address on a slip of paper from his bag and placing it down on the table. "If you were gonna say 'no', you woulda done it already." He finished with a grin, opening the door and walking through it, leaving Rose standing there, fingers to her lips.

"Oh, and Rose?" He said, sticking his head back in the room before closing the door. "I love you."

"I…love you…too." She answered, as his head ducked back out and the door closed behind him. She walked slowly to the door, flipping the locks. She turned around, leaning her back against the heavy wood, and sunk to the floor, tilting her head back.

"Yes." She whispered. "Yes."


	6. Chapter 6

Laughter. Grins. The shining of eyes, all centered on one human being, one woman, dressed in white, walking slowly ad carefully down the aisle. The perfect wedding. Or, rather, the expectation of a perfect wedding.

Instead, she found herself, barefoot, in a loose white dress, sprinting down the beach. One hand held her toddler son, the other grasping a man's hand perfectly. They laughed and ran, ran and laughed…or so I'm told.

You see, my grandmother was that woman; my grandfather that man. And my dad? The toddler. That's the story they've always told, whether it be at birthday parties or funerals.

So, I've grown up hearing about the magical relationship, where they survived the Titanic, reunited, and lived happily ever after. Hey, we've got the pictures to prove it.

And here it is, 1996, and I'm holding my own toddler, telling her the story of my grandparents, Rose and Jack Dawson. I'm a writer, you see, but, at this moment, I'm not doing any writing. I'm sitting here, holding my daughter in my arms, dictating the story into a little black tape recorder. Now, though, it's becoming more of a narration of my life.

Let's rehash: Grandma Rose survived the Titanic, as did Grandpa Jack. They didn't know that the other had lived, though, and went their separate ways, both moving to Santa Monica, where they promptly met up on the beach. During their time away, Rose had had a son, my dad, Jack junior.

The first night back together, Jack proposed, and, after deliberating for a very brief window of ten minutes, Rose said 'yes'. Then, they eloped, in some sort, as neither one really had any family to run away from. That's where the beach scene comes in, with the laughter and the hand holding while they ran down the beach. To be honest, I think Grandpa made that part up when he told me the story all those Sundays ago, but for now, the embellishment just makes the story richer.

After the wedding, they stayed in Santa Monica, buying a small house with a yard. They lived there, in that three-bedroom place for a good six years before moving to a bigger house when Rose became pregnant with my aunt. After that, they went on to have two more kids, numbering their family at six.

They stayed in the bigger house while their kids grew up, went to college, got jobs, families of their own. Then, the grandkids came along, my cousins and me dominating the house every Sunday, when we gathered in the living room to hear their story from Grandpa, and to eat Grandma's cakes.

The decades flew by, landing them in a nursing home when Grandma broke her hip and Grandpa went with her. They shared a room, though, and made friends with all the other residents.

My Grandma died a few years ago, from pneumonia. She had gotten the short end of dementia, but Grandpa always knew just how to calm her down and remind her gently about the things her mind had forgotten.

So, Grandpa went on, crushed as he was. He was there for every birth, every marriage, every celebration, offering up witty remarks and grins. You could always tell that he was heartbroken, though. You could always tell that he couldn't wait to die. But, for everyone's sake, he put on a smile, kissed you on the cheek, and told you everything would be fine.

Then, this year, he fell and broke his arm. He claimed it was just a freak accident, but we all knew better. You see, the anniversary of my grandmother's death was two days away, and he was always on edge around this time.

So, he wound up in the hospital, needing surgery to fix his arm. Everyone came to visit him, and I remember my two-year old clutching her blanky to her chest tightly, so as not to have it touch the hospital floors.

We all gathered around his bed, with him in the center, his arm in a sling. He told us, once more, his story with my grandmother, tears making his eyes shiny. He laughed at the funny parts and frowned at the bad, enthralling us with the two-hour long story that we had all come to know word for word.

Once visiting hours were over, we exited the room, thanking the doctors who told us that, other than the break in his arm, our 104-year-old grandfather was healthy for a man of his age. And then we left, saying goodbye to Grandpa Jack.

The next morning, we got a call from the hospital, telling us that Jack had died in his sleep that night, on the anniversary of my Grandmother's death. They said that there was no heart attack or sudden illness, that he had simply died, ceasing to exist in life, living only in memory. The funeral was that Thursday.

We cried, we laughed, we remained silent. The funeral was a melting pot for everyone Jack had ever touched in his long lifespan, all the friends, relatives, neighbors; _everyone._ We swapped our favorite stories, wiped away each other's tears, and reminded ourselves that Jack was up in heaven with his sweetheart, sailing on the immortal Titanic and loving every minute of it.

And so, six months after Jack's death, I'm sitting here, holding my daughter in my arms, telling the little black tape recorder on my desk the story that my grandparents loved to tell. And, hey, if I never get around to writing it in a book, then at least the tape will still be around for posterity. And you know what? I don't think Grandpa Jack would have it any other way.

**A/N: Sorry about this chapter, I couldn't really think of how to further the story, so I just wrote what came to mind. I hope it doesn't suck too much! Review to tell me what you think. If you think I should scrap this, then I'll go back to the writer's block and come up with something new! Thanks for reading!**


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